To Rule the World
by Procrastinator12
Summary: The reflection of a Dark Lord. Lord Voldemort has conquered everything, but now what? Woe to he who has vanquished all foes. Humor?/Angst, one-shot, OOC, AU, Emo!Voldemort, Dead!Everyone; can Voldemort ever truly win?


**A/N:** This is a short, spontaneously-written reflection from Voldemort after he has taken over the world. The idea was meant to be more mocking and humorous, but I think it turned a little to the side of dark and serious, so I'm calling this Humor?/Angst, because I just don't know.

Don't know why I wrote this, but here it is. If it's _Riddled_ (haha, gittit?) with errors, I apologize, like I said, this was spontaneous.

Let me know what you think.

Warnings: short mentions of character deaths and a reference to torture; spoilers through DH.

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**To Rule the World**

_Take over the world, they said._

_It will be fun, they said._

_Well, _they_ failed to mention that the fun part only lasted until the opposition was dead._

_Then again, he was probably the first person to actually take over the world, so perhaps they hadn't really known._

He sat on his stone throne—he'd had another one made of ebony, then tried marble, and finally gold, but at the end of it he favored the old plain stone—with his face resting on a curled fist, observing the grand and so very empty hall before him. There was a very long table before him, every space beside it filled with high-backed wooden chairs, and the surface of it covered in a long dark green cloth decked with silver candlesticks, none of which were lit. Out of boredom, Voldemort waved his hand, and the hundreds of wicks were lighted with small glowing flames. He extinguished them with another wave, lit them again, and extinguished them again. It made no difference whether they were lit or not, really. But he had the power to change it at will, and that was all that mattered, wasn't it?

He wondered what his Death Eaters were doing at the moment. Bellatrix was probably torturing someone. Wormtail was probably sniveling somewhere. Greyback was probably devouring something. He hadn't called them, so they weren't here, even though they could be, if he wanted it so. He had many more followers now—enough to fill this entire hall and then some. What more could he possibly ask for?

He sighed heavily and sank further into his throne. He frowned at the closest chair on the right hand side of the table. That one had belonged to Severus Snape. He was dead now, of course. He had betrayed him after Dumbledore's death and the destruction of the Order of the Phoenix. Apparently he'd been loyal to the light since the First War. Voldemort had thought this a real shame, and envied Dumbledore for the loyalty of his followers.

But still, Dumbledore was dead, so Voldemort had the last laugh, right?

Well, none of his other followers were quite as clever as Severus Snape. He still hadn't found a proper replacement, but then he wasn't sure he wanted to, out of fear that they might betray him as well.

Most of them only served him out of fear now, aside from the Lestranges and the Carrows. Bellatrix was usually good for a laugh, but lately her exploits only depressed him. Not that he cared for any person's suffering, particularly that of Muggles, but he couldn't see the humor in her new hobby of Muggle-burning—irony, yes, but humor? Bellatrix had peculiar tastes…

If there were any who still wished for his defeat, they were completely without hope, especially since he'd killed their mascot Harry Potter. The boy had been so foolish to think he could defeat him, the most powerful wizard of all time, that he'd challenged him willingly and openly, like the idiot Gryffindor that he was. Apparently he'd thought it worth dying for—some nonsense likely instilled in him by Dumbledore—so he'd not even shown regret when he'd known he'd lost. He'd just looked him in the eye and said the stupidest thing: "It's not me who's lost, Tom."

Whatever _that_ meant.

…Well, Voldemort had wanted to know what it meant—it might've been some trickery of Dumbledore's (he knew better than to underestimate that man—he was a nuisance even in death), so of course he'd searched the boy's mind.

And _that_ had been torture—for him, that is. Well, for the boy too, probably, but Voldemort wasn't too concerned about that.

The child's mind was _littered_ with the most inane things—flying brooms, sipping Butterbeers, scribbling on parchment next to a fireplace, casting Patronus after Patronus after glowy and hopeful Patronus, sickeningly happy feelings and laughter with friends, and then even more obnoxious memories of Snape's real loyalties—as if Voldemort needed reminding—and finally the fool Dumbledore, and the memory that had brought on Potter's idiotic comment.

He didn't know what brought about Dumbledore's quip, or when he had even shared it with Potter (when were the two ever alone at Kings Cross? And hadn't he killed Dumbledore years ago?), but he got the irritating feeling that the old fool had been referring to him.

Not that it mattered. Dumbledore's comment was as idiotic as Potter's, not that he cared to remember it. It was something foolhardy and Gryffindor and completely insane along the lines of "Do not pity the dead, Harry. Pity the living, and, above all, those who live without love."

Whatever _that_ meant.

Voldemort had had the last laugh—had literally laughed in Potter's face at his foolishness, scoffed his heroism, his weakness, his pathetic attempts to stop his rise to power, his loyalty to that _thing_ that had so thoroughly blinded him and Dumbledore and Severus Snape—what they called _love_.

And then he'd killed Potter, of course. Per usual, he had chosen the Killing Curse, the better to send his foe to a swift death. Potter hadn't so much as blinked. He'd just stared coolly into Voldemort's eyes, so certain that he'd won.

But of course, he hadn't. Potter was dead. Voldemort was alive. _He_ had been the true victor. The last laugh was _his_.

Thinking this, he chuckled lightly, hollowly.

The hall before him was still empty and cold. He lit the candles again, hoping they'd add some warm to the room.

Perhaps he should summon someone—or everyone. Maybe make an appearance in a Muggle town, stand above them as they all bowed before him. That would show Dumbledore—that would show all of them.

He was greater than them—he, who had defeated death, who had risen to rule over all of them. Who wouldn't kill to be in such a position?

He had more than anyone. He had _everything_.

And yet—_and yet_—it felt as if something was missing. There must be some power he had never tapped, something he had yet to gain, because ruling the world was meant to be enjoyable, worthwhile, _satisfying_, but he looked at the empty hall, and thought of the followers at his command, the fall of the Ministry, his hold of power not just in wizarding Britain, but throughout the whole world, and the fact that _everything_ was within his reach, but that _none of it_ could satisfy him, and he felt an emptiness clutching at his cold heart the likes of which he had never felt before.

Something was missing.

But what that something was, he would never know.


End file.
